


Affection

by Owlix



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Gen, Post-War Trauma, mentions of past drug addiction, physical affection, the complications of switching sides, uneven relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 09:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3524294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlix/pseuds/Owlix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Rodimus put an arm around Drift and tried to pull him close, Drift punched him in the face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Affection

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Affection (Chinese Version)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9094612) by [Coldwaaaave](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coldwaaaave/pseuds/Coldwaaaave)



The first time Rodimus put an arm around Drift and tried to pull him close, Drift punched him in the face.

It was an automatic reaction - a reflex. Entirely unintentional. They had been talking, and Drift had said something Rodimus approved of, and Rodimus threw a casual friendly arm around Drift's shoulder. And Drift punched him.

Punched _Rodimus_. The only one out of any of them who'd defended Drift's place here, and Drift had just slugged him in the jaw for being friendly.

Drift froze, right hand still clenched in a fist. He was sure that he had ruined everything. He’d ruined this chance like he’d ruined all the other ones, like he ruined every good thing that came into his life. He stood still and waited for Rodimus to call him a dirty Decepticon, to shout at him to get out, maybe to hit him back.

But Rodimus just smiled.

It should've been a ridiculous expression, but somehow it was charming instead; Rodimus was stupidly, effortlessly handsome, with a seemingly boundless ability to make anything look good, even those ridiculous flames on his hood. Still smiling, Rodimus gripped his own chin with his hand and moved his jaw from side to side and winced.

"Sorry," he said warmly, sounding a little bit embarrassed. "I shouldn't have done that. I've been told I'm too familiar."

"No," Drift stammered. "No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have hit you. It was a reflex."

“An ex-Decepticon thing, I guess... Well, no harm done." Rodimus was lying; the injury was obvious on his face. And Drift could make some sense of that, at least - the bravado, the posturing. “Still friends, right?”

Rodimus reached for Drift again on instinct, then stopped himself, hand paused awkwardly in midair.

Drift pushed his shoulder into the touch, encouraging it. Prepared, this time. Rodimus’ smile widened and he responded eagerly, laying his arm across Drift’s shoulders. He gave away that easy affection as if it was nothing.

Rodimus’ arm was heavy, his touch steady and reassuring, and his body was as warm and pleasant as his voice. It had been a long time since anyone had touched Drift with anything like affection. He leaned into the touch shamelessly, and missed it badly when Rodimus finally let him go.

 

When Drift was younger - with Gasket and their crew - physical affection had come easily and often.

They’d recharged together in messy piles of intertangled limbs, engines humming softly idle. In the interest of sharing heat, they told each other, and there was some truth to that - fuel was expensive and they never had enough, and their Dead End shelter was drafty at best.

But there was more to it than just that. They needed the affection. They needed to be touched by someone else, to be reminded that they were more than just trash for other mechs to step around. They touched each other without cringing away, pulled each other close without wincing at what they saw, shared each other’s heat without noticing scraped paint and seeping fuel. Held each other like they were something more than addicts and leakers and criminals. Like they were worth something.

And if they’d shared other things too - if Gasket and Drift had laid awake together while everyone else recharged, hands seeking out the damaged places and easing sore tenderness - if Gasket had woken Drift in the night and kissed Drift slow and hesitant and Drift had kissed back, equally unsure, too sincere and trying much too hard - if they’d linked cables between them and shared illegal software and memories and stared up together at the stars through the cracks in the abandoned Dead-End building they spent nights in -

Well, if they had done those things, it was because they’d needed them, too.

 

Things had changed. Drift lost Gasket, and with him, slowly lost the rest of their crew. The physical affection in his life gradually wilted, until the only kind touch left was Ratchet.

Ratchet, mending him when he was broken - gentle precise hands that only healed and never damaged. Always unfailingly professional, always carefully reserved, but always kind, and that was something. Often, it was the only source of kindness in Drift’s life at all.

Ratchet seemed to know it. He was always professional - that never wavered, not for an instant. But sometimes before Drift left, Ratchet would put one heavy hand on Drift’s shoulder and leave it there until Drift finally pulled away. And sometimes, later, Drift would close his eyes and would remember the weight of it.

 

But affection only became harder to come by. Drift joined the Decepticons - hand picked by Megatron himself, special, and therefore a target for everyone else who was high-ranked or who wanted to be. He joined because he believed in the cause - because their whole society was rotten and because he wanted to change it. That was the reason - not because he was lost and rudderless, not because he was hopeless without someone to tell him what to do, not because he was lonely and empty and...

Megatron’s faith in him gave Drift the strength to finally face his addiction. And if some part of him said that he’d just traded one addiction for another - for a desperate need to hear those approving words, to feel that occasional heat that came with Megatron’s large unpainted hand on Drift’s shoulder, for the rush of battle and the sense of power that came with it and the rhythmic kick of firearms against his frame  - well, Drift strangled those thoughts right along with his deep desire for the oblivion of the drugs and for the dirty, drafty den where he had never slept alone.

He didn’t need those things. Not any more. He’d become stronger than that. He’d moved on.

There was little physical affection to be found among the ranks for Drift. Among the grunts, such things came frequently and easily - they were all always near death, and had the camaraderie of brothers-in-arms.

But physical affection grew rarer and riskier the higher one moved up the ranks. And Drift moved up fast, and had even loftier goals. He held himself apart from everyone. For his own safety, but also because he’d decided that he didn’t need it. Desire, want - it made him weak. It had always made him weak.

 

Wing had read Drift well enough to know that physical affection was far more than he could handle. Had given him, instead, curtailed and tightly controlled violence. Drift wished that he could say he had responded in kind; he’d fought back intending to kill, at least at first. But slowly his violence became tempered by Wing’s restraint. And that had been something.

 

Rodimus wore Drift down, too. But where Wing had been all tight restraint, Rodimus was playful and immature. Poor impulse control and a tendency to lash out, combined with a deep and inexplicable need to show off.

As if he needed to impress Drift. As if he didn’t understand that Drift had been his since the very first kind word and warm smile. He knew, didn’t he? He had to know.

 

Soon after they first met, Rodimus challenged Drift to a race.

Rodimus had been desperate for a willing playmate and racing partner - someone who could actually keep up with him, someone willing to play hard and fast and reckless. Before Drift, Rodimus had only had Bee - not fast enough, too careful, too sensitive for Rodimus’ rough play, harsh words, and careless affection.

Drift didn’t trust him. He hadn’t survived all those years in the street and then risen so high among the Decepticon ranks by being naive. Some part of Drift was convinced that the race was a trick - that Rodimus was planning to get him alone and exhausted in order to kill him.

Drift tried to tell himself that deception wasn’t the Autobots’ style - a lie that even he couldn’t believe, having faced too many of them in the field. Then he told himself that it wasn’t _Rodimus_ ’ style, which was truer.

Drift was afraid it was a trap, but he raced Rodimus anyway. Because of the warmth of that smile. Because it grew warmer when he agreed with whatever Rodimus was asking of him. Because it tugged at his spark.

Because Rodimus had believed in Drift’s worth, so Drift would believe in Rodimus, too. Even if it killed him.

They raced, careless and dangerous. Drift vowed to hold back, to keep some energy in reserve in case he had to fight for his life. But with Rodimus’ mocking voice ahead of him and Rodimus’ dust on his windshield, his restraint hadn’t lasted long. They laughed and sped and wasted more fuel than seemed prudent and Drift didn’t care if it was all a trap and he’d be murdered at the end of it.

They raced for hours, until they overheated and shifted modes and sprawled out spread-eagle together on their backs under the stars, their armor ticking as they sucked in cold night air. They exhaled and laughed and taunted each other, but always they eventually went silent. Rodimus’ hand found Drift’s, fingers hooked loosely together - a point of heat and touch in the pleasantly chilly night.

And they raced home again, and limped back inside scuffed and dinged and dirty, long scrapes of each others’ paint and bare metal where they’d rubbed against each other on the turns, with bald tires and blown-out engine parts.

Sometimes Drift staggered, weak from low fuel levels and from pushing himself too hard, but when he did, Rodimus held him up. Drift was there with his own strength when Rodimus leaned on him.

And they went home, supporting each other, and Ratchet was there to fix the damage.

**Author's Note:**

> Stopped trying to make this be what I wanted it to be and decided to just let it be what it is instead.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
